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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24649771">i could never hold a perfect thing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/any_open_eye/pseuds/any_open_eye'>any_open_eye</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metal Gear</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:08:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,519</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24649771</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/any_open_eye/pseuds/any_open_eye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“All of this.” He yanks at your scarf, your hair. “This is all bullshit.” </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“The cowboy schtick. It’s always been bullshit.” </p>
<p>You smile. </p>
<p>(Kaz and Ocelot debrief after mgs5)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kazuhira Miller/Ocelot, Kazuhira Miller/Venom Snake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i could never hold a perfect thing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is kind of a counterfactual "what if ocelot had told him in person, rather than in the phone call".</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You knew.” </p>
<p>Miller smells like unwashed clothes and angry perspiration. He drops his crutch and uses a combination of his clumsy weight and gravity to shove you up against the railing with his body. His lack of balance means that your torso takes most of the hit. Pain splinters through your sternum. A bruised rib, at the very least. </p>
<p>“You knew,” he hisses again. You don’t know what’s worse, his spit in your face or the greasy pieces of hair that fall against your cheeks.</p>
<p>“I know a lot of things, Miller.” Just goading enough to stoke his anger, rather than send it up into an inferno. A truly incensed Kazuhira Miller is impossible to talk to. He throws things . There’s nothing here to throw except for you, and although you’d survive a fall from this height, you’d wish you hadn’t. And you’d be obliged to take him with you. V might be able to survive the loss of one of his Lieutenants, but not both. “But you’re wrong about this. You don’t have all of the information.” </p>
<p>Miller laughs through his nose. “Oh, is that right?” He shakes you. The railing groans beneath your combined weight. Your rib screams. Your face shows absolutely none of it. “You spent months lying to me, you lied to our men, you let me <i>fuck</i>—.” His voice breaks. “—That stranger!” </p>
<p>Putting aside the fact that Miller is a grown man, and you didn’t <i>let</i> him do anything— “I didn’t know anything more than you did until a few days ago.” </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>You manage not to roll your eyes but it’s a close thing. “Who am I, Miller? <i>What</i> am I?” </p>
<p>Kaz starts laughing. “Are you telling me you mind-controlled yourself into forgetting you mind-controlled someone else into thinking they’re our leader?” </p>
<p>“Yes.” No, not even close. As usual, Snake’s bed warmer is about as subtle as food poisoning. But your ribs are actually beginning to make it hard to breathe.</p>
<p>You push him back and he goes, but he doesn’t release you. His crutch is on the ground. He’ll fall if he lets go of you. If you let go of him. He’s looking at you like he doesn’t know who you are. Like the two of you haven’t spent the last nine years uncomfortably jammed into each other’s space like cars rusting in a repo lot. Put out to pasture. </p>
<p>“All of this.” He yanks at your scarf, your hair. “This is all bullshit.” </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“The cowboy schtick. It’s always been bullshit.” </p>
<p>You smile. </p>
<p>Crimson creeps up the side of his neck. “You faked your whole personality for nine years. For what?” </p>
<p>You don’t say anything. </p>
<p>“Snake said you were a fumbling dipshit when you met him. Was that an act too? What are you actually like?” </p>
<p>“It’s not important.” You don’t tell Miller that there is no point in posing this question, because the answer changes depending on who you ask. When you ask. How you ask. And even then the answer is malleable, an iridescent shift of colors. There’s never been anything constant in your life. </p>
<p>Well, one thing. </p>
<p>“So I’ve never talked to a personality that is actually yours? My god, have you ever said ANYTHING true to me?” </p>
<p>Kaz is sweating. You aren’t sure if it’s from the exertion of standing without his crutch for so long, or if what you’re saying to him is really causing him that much anguish. </p>
<p>“Why don’t you—.” He bites off the word. </p>
<p>“What makes a personality “real”, Miller? Does it have to be homegrown? What if an individual suffers traumatic brain damage?” Your mouth twitches. “What makes your personality—Kazuhira Miller, the Kazuhira Miller you built from scratch when you moved to America—any more legitimate than the Ocelot you’ve known for nine years?” </p>
<p>“You’ve just betrayed years of partnership, you could at LEAST—.” </p>
<p>“At least?” You laugh in Miller’s face. He looks mad enough to bite your nose off. You probably shouldn’t be having this conversation while practically dangling over the edge of the water at the highest point of the Command Platform. In fact, you shouldn’t be having this conversation at all. You should have waited until you were safely out of throwing range before breaking the news, but when John says go, you go. </p>
<p>The wind snaps you hair away from face and flaps Miller’s coat against both of your legs.  “You want to know “the least I could do”, Miller? I could have left you to die in Eritrea. I could have let those bounty hunters catch up to you in Argentina. I could have failed to stop, not one, not two, but <i>five</i> assassins coming for your sloppy ass. I could have killed you nine years ago and saved myself a decade of heartburn.” Kaz’s breaths are coming faster. He’s trembling. The wind blows harder. It buffets the both of you, precarious. “You think you’re a necessary expense? You’re an accountant. A secretary. There are a million of you swarming Wall Street. You’re still alive because you are Snake’s walking, talking cocksleeve. And it’s my job to make sure none of his things get damaged while he’s gone.” </p>
<p>It’s the sharpest you’ve ever been with him. You’ve never gone louder than lightly argumentative or playfully chiding. It gets under his skin worse than shouting does, which is why you do it. But even here you can’t help being what you are, can’t help smoothing the words down to appeal to him. You’re flattering him. You needed him to help ground the phantom, you didn’t keep him alive just for John. But as angry as it makes him to be told his mind and hard-won skills are worthless, he <i>likes</i> the idea of being saved for John. For Snake. It appeals to romantic in him. And it makes him hard. You can feel it against your leg. In fact, he might have been hard this whole time. </p>
<p>And you, admittedly, should expect it when he kisses you. </p>
<p>Kazuhira Miller’s libido has always been staggering. Not just in its intensity or regularity, but in its sheer audacity. </p>
<p>He growls and bites your lips. You kiss him back because you have no reason not to, winding your fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. You yank and he chokes, shuddering against you. You take the opportunity to tip you both forward, picking him up and slamming him back against the flimsy metal planking of the Command tower. Your ribs scream, but the two of you are no longer at risk of tumbling into the sea. </p>
<p>His eyes close behind the aviators, and his body relaxes. He didn’t want to fall. As much as Miller hates himself and hates you, he doesn’t want to die. Not even to take you with him. You aren’t the person he wanted alongside him for a burial at sea. </p>
<p>He bites at your lip, and now you’re trading more blood than spit. The noises he’s making are getting higher and more desperate. It sounds like you’re fucking him instead of just sucking on his tongue. There have been times in the last decade—probably more times than you’ve allowed yourself to remember—but it’s been years and two amputations since the last time you touched him like this. You feel the needy shudder of his flesh when you drop your hands to squeeze his ass. </p>
<p>When his one hand starts yanking at your fly, however, you step back. There are things you’re willing to do to keep him happy, but not that. Not anymore. He’s got someone else to fuck his troubles away. </p>
<p>Miller’s head falls back against the wall with hollow thunk. </p>
<p>“What do I tell him?” </p>
<p>Miller might pretend that he can erase nine years of partnership in one pissy outburst, but he still asks for your advice. Contrary to what most people will tell you, trust doesn’t break. It erodes as slow as a channel to the sea. Trusting someone is a habit, and habits don’t go down without a fight. </p>
<p>“You don’t have to tell him anything.” You straighten your collar, tug down the tail of your shirt. “I promise you, he won’t say anything if you don’t.” </p>
<p>Kaz laughs. “Won’t, or can’t?” </p>
<p>“Does it matter?” </p>
<p>You can tell that Kaz believes it does. But he’s no longer looking at you. Blood seeps from a cut on his bottom lip. He doesn’t bother to lick it away. “I shouldn’t blame you, really. He does this to everyone. And he got to you young.” </p>
<p>You don’t bother to correct him. Nothing you say will satisfy him. If you tried to explain what you and John share, he wouldn’t understand. It would be like trying to explain the sky to a fish. </p>
<p>Instead you pick up his crutch. He doesn’t thank you, just starts on his slow, limping walk back down to his office. You tip your head back into the sea air, closing your eyes for just a moment. </p>
<p>Then you straighten your shirt and run a gloved hand through your hair. You have calls to make.</p>
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